It's not the memory itself

The moment that ineffable smell will reach his nose, in that distant town, many years from now, on that strange balcony, after having searched for his lost keys for so long, he’ll just go out to take a breather, and that smell will instantly warp his mind into a spin, grab his soul, and he’ll be right back here, in this field, with these people sitting around the fire, under the deep dark blue sky, and the birds flying toward the trees over there, and the songs, and the somewhat sore throat, he’ll be right back here, except it’ll feel fuzzier, more like a dream, but at the same time more real, it’ll feel like the essence of it were squeezed into a moment entirely dedicated to this miniscule part of his being, this tiny fragment, this jewel box, with the shudders from the slight breeze amplified, and the smiles magnified, until the smoke engulfs it all again…

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